A Shattered Visage
by DragonFisher
Summary: In Novigrad during the events of The Witcher 3, Geralt of Rivia found himself entangled in a plot of assassination, desperation, hope, and redemption. His path once again crossed that of Graden the witch hunter, Tamara Strenger, Triss, and Hierarch Hammelfart. He would get to know them deeper, perhaps deeper than he would have liked.
1. Chapter 1

Upon hearing the familiar cry like a high-pitched vomit, Geralt put out his torch. The zigzag of a tunnel fell into pitch black, save for two dots of twinkling orange glow like the eyes of a cat. His enlarged pupils filled the entire eye, took in the dim light reflecting off the crisscrossing wooden beams that supported the tunnel. "No Aard here," he thought to himself, "unless I wanna bring down the tunnel on me."

There were three feeding on a corpse, and a fourth further away. With luck it won't even catch the sound of battle until the three were dealt with. The silver sword silently flied into Geralt's hand, giving off a brief, dim glow of purple rune words. Its hilt was engraved with a delicate head of a leopard. And just like a leopard, Geralt suddenly leapt forward, three steps, then thrusted his sword accurately into the stomach of a Devourer. The beast froze with its claws halfway in the air, still clutching onto a piece of rotten, human flesh. Geralt pulled out his sword and tumbled backward in one motion. The strong gastric acid that helped the devourer digest even bones and hairs now flowed out of its stomach, quickly melting through his organs while producing chemical fume that bloated its body.

Geralt had seen monstrosity too often to feel anything at this most unnatural sight of death. In his mind there was only the danger of explosion and the opportunity of using that explosion to kill off the other two, both of which had leapt to their feet. With a quickstep Geralt easily dodged the dash of the first, and his sword traced a semicircle before clashing with the claws of the second. He sidestepped, then back thrust, followed by two quick swings that built up momentum as he rotated a full circle, ended with a powerful swing forward. As expected, the swing hit nothing but air. But that was all Geralt needed to scare the devourer into a backward jump, right next to the bloated one. Blast. A thunder of death and a rain of blood covered the small tunnel. Distracted by the explosion, the third one looked away for a second, exactly as Geralt expected. In half a second his body already span a semicircle, giving his sword just enough momentum to send the devourer's head flying.

The fourth one ran rabidly towards the explosion and leapt at Geralt. He pirouetted and quickly cut across the devourer's chest. The latter howled with pain. The necrophage coating on Geralt's sword immediately kicked into its nerve system. There is no better time. Geralt's left hand reached forward, drawing the sign of Igni. From his fingertips there outflowed a current of flame and sparks. Its extra sensitivity to pain and heat completely immobilized the corpse eater. Geralt lifted his sword high above his head, imbuing his superhuman strength into a decisive rend. Slash! Then only half of the devourer was left standing, still dripping out of it a mixture of blood and acid.

"It's clear."

Few minutes later a group of people descended to the witcher that would make the most bizarre company up ground, for there were around five or six well-armed witch hunters, one of them apparently a commander, and two priests of the Eternal Fire. They cursed the smell as they came. One of the priests, with the focused countenance of a monk dedicated to theology and theology only, approached a wall ornamented with dusty fresco. The other held up a torch for him. Geralt could hear occasional, raucous "yeah…" from him as he traced the fresco. Finally, he pressed on a brick painted red, and a segment of the wall opened.

Before them stood a small but well-furnished laboratory. Wherever the torch light touched there were books, containers and other unnamable objects. The limited space of the underground tunnel did not limit the owner's ambition to stuff the lab with fancy trinkets that sent Geralt's wolf medallion into a constant humming.

"Well, well, who'd have thought? A bunch of greedy, tunnel-digging thieves really opened up the way for us."

"You don't say. Had they taken a stroll in here they would've realized this is worth more than the Vivaldi bank!"

"Had they known how to open it up, they wouldn't be so stupid to bring down the tunnel and the entire building onta themselves!"

"Ha, hard to argue against that. But enough chatter. Start searching!" Then the lab was thus sent into a further disarray.

"Ahem…" Geralt reminded cautiously, "now that the job is done…"

"The job is done only when we all emerge out of these blasted tunnels back into civilization in one piece," said a witch hunter commander, "until then, do be so kind to cherish the moment with us. Not every day we get a chance to work with a freak." Several others let out a dry laughter.

Geralt leaned back in an armchair and watched, with somewhat amusement, at the busywork of the witch hunters. Gotta say, they hunted for magical artefacts with the same professionalism of a witcher hunting a kikismore. Well within half an hour, a small pile of mirrors, and any bauble with a reflective surface, stood before the witch hunter commander.

"Quite a beauty lover, this Felicia Cori, with all her mirrors."

"Heard she was a hair dresser back in Vergen."

"Should've kept that line of work. Might've kept her life."

"I think 'tis the one. Shit, I look good in this!" One of the witch hunters picked up an especially delicate mirror. The two priests inspected it and nodded.

"Lemme see it!" another one took over and looked into the mirror. "Wow, with a face like this I'll get in every brothel around town for fre…" then he stopped under the priests' watchful eyes.

"Witcher, wanna see how your mug shows in this bauble?"

With grim curiosity Geralt looked into the mirror. The face he saw he would hardly have recognized had it not for the white hair. The face that stared back at him had natural colors on its cheeks, its scars gone without a trace, its edges delicate and refined yet with all the subtle wildness and masculinity intact. For a lack of words to describe, he simply saw a better-looking version of himself. A much better-looking version.

Even the commander was stunned a bit by his magically handsome face in the mirror. "So the sorceress told the truth. The Magic Mirror, one that makes you beautiful! Very good. Burn the rest. Chop chop."

As the first tufts of sunlight pierced through the shroud of night, Novigrad began to reluctantly wake up from its deep yet haunted night. Bandits started to scatter, drunkards began to sober up, dock masters began to kick the dockhands awake and drag them to a new day's labor, and witcher Geralt came out of the sewer with witch hunters. It was dawning, the underground excursion took longer than he expected.

"We part here, witcher. You are a freak, but a handy one. Gold for the freak then."

"How'bout that," Geralt grinned at the satisfying weight of the gold pouch, "they always say gold is the universal tongue that breaks down all social boundaries."

"It's your bones that'll break down if you don't quite that smart talkin'. Don't take the venture together as some kinda association with you, freak. 'Tis only business."

"Never took it beyond that." Geralt shrugged and walked away, a hand still on the pouch. Job done beautifully, and nobody suspected. Now it is high time to report everything to Triss Merigold. With that, he strode toward Rosemary and Thyme.


	2. Chapter 2

"A magic mirror? That was what they were after? I would certainly have suspected more."

"I observed everything. Took only the mirror, and burned the rest. The darkness couldn't cover them from a witcher's eyes."

"And you are sure you didn't raise any suspicions?"

"Triss, my stoic witcher outlook is perfect for undercover missions. I even threw some smoke screens, pretending to be reluctant, you know. Though, speaking of the mirror, do sorceresses really make things like that?"

Triss raised her ginger head slightly and pouted her lips just enough to arouse in the witcher a rare sense of cherishment. "There are many magic mirrors in this world that can reflect their owner in a special way. This one you mentioned seems to be enchanted to bond with its owner somehow, and reflect the owner's most desired look of him or herself. Poor Felicia Cori was just gaining fame as a cosmetologist when they caught her."

"But why would you need it? Sorceresses are already beautiful."

Triss looked away for a brief second and said: "no one is ever beautiful enough."

Geralt noticed that her eyes fell onto the lone branch of rose of remembrance, now withered and dried. But that didn't prevent it from arousing in Geralt a memory carved into his mind. For a while he seemed to have drifted out of the bricks and boats of Novigrad and returned to a certain garden, to a rose bush among twisted trees and tangled roots, where he said something, some vague and distant thing, about a statue, an elf's sensitivity, a fairytale about a never-withering flower, and, maybe, also about love. Funny, he thought, that he had his memory back, but the image of the woman who concealed tears of joy behind a suppressed gasp in that garden, the color of her hair and her eyes, became all the more convoluted into a smear of fiery read and raven black, of pure sapphire and deep violet. Was that Yen in the garden? Was that Triss at Kaer Morhen? He didn't know. He doesn't know anymore. Is it true, that a woman can never be beautiful enough…

"About the job… ahem, the witch hunters…. I mean, why do they want with the mirror?"

Dragged back to reality, Triss half-heartedly commented: "Perhaps even witch hunters need a nice look once in a while to boost their ego, if they haven't had enough already."

"Whereas someone else whose pursuit for fine art goes forever underappreciated," proclaimed Dandelion as he strode into the cozy meeting room on the upper floor, "could certainly use a boost of ego in this age deprived of aesthetic passion."

"Dandelion," Geralt turned to him, "humble as always." Despite the sarcasm, his genuine smile betrayed a secret relief at the presence of this witty-mouthed bard.

Before Dandelion could finish his etiquette bow to Triss, Zoltan's rusty voice already sounded behind him: "Ha! All four of us 'round a table."

"Zoltan, always a pleasure. No booming business to attend to?"

"Nah. 'Tis just around late morn; too late for last night's drunkards, too early for tonight's. Come, let's sit down and drink something strong. It's been months since we four last drank together, not since Flotsam. Shite, that still gives me goosebumps... Say, you like me tinklin' with the place?"

Geralt's nose had been filled with the refreshing, if not a bit overpowering, scent from the bundles of rosemary and thyme hanging on the doorway. "Well, I see you took the inn's name quite literally with these herbs."

"This, my friend, is no longer an inn," Dandelion intervened, "but a cabaret. Do you know the difference? A cabaret is exquisitely more artistic in…"

"Ha! A cabaret is exquisitely more expensive, that's what it is."

"I'm working on raising the funds, I am! But now that you have brought the materialistic element into our conversation, Zoltan, why don't you show Geralt the notice?"

"A notice, for me?"

"Aye. Dandelion and I, we put up a notice board outside the in… the cabaret, y'know, since we're turning into a social hub 'round here. And this mornin' I found this. A contract for a witcher."

Geralt took the piece of notice:

"I want a witcher! There is a monster in my house. A ghost! My dad doesn't believe me, but it's true! Well, it hasn't done anything really bad yet, except scaring me in my sleep, but I'm scared that it will choke me one of these days. I'm not daydreaming! Witchers kill monsters, right? Kill it for a reward of 100 gold coins, but don't try to cheat me, I'll know. My house is next to the Hierarch Square, first to the left when you walk out of the fish market. You won't miss it."

"Well, Geralt, whaddaya think? A kid scared off his pants, it seems. Probably just a weird neighbor or some ploughin' mice. Looks like easy gold, aye?"

"Easy gold too often means a hoax in our line of work, and this notice reeks of a hoax. A kid's way of speaking, but an adult's handwriting. And I know that house. That was where you made the bomb in that stupid heist of yours," he looked at Dandelion, "and as far as I know, that building was confiscated by the Church of the Eternal Fire soon afterwards. I don't know who lives there now, but whoever does can't have the health of a witcher as his goal of life."

"In fact, I happen to know who lives there," intervened Triss, "Graden. A witch hunter commander in charge of the entire Velen, just promoted to be Menge's right hand man a week ago. It's not good news. He is one of the ablest witch hunters; got blood of dozens of sorceresses on his hands."

"Graden?" Dandelion gasped, "Graden of Oxenfurt? Tall and thin like a broom, pale, brown hair, and a face like an elf?"

"That's him, no mistake about it. Exactly how I remembered him from Velen," Geralt said.

"You know him?"

"Yeah, by some wild chance I ended up helping a baron looking for his daughter, and ran into this Graden twice. Once in Oxenfurt, once in the swamp. The baron's daughter wanted to become a witch hunter, and joined Graden's division."

"Geralt, my friend, were it not for your habitually stoic witcher outlook I'd have taken it for a very bad joke. Why, he was my classmate back in Oxenfurt Academy. We studied Rhetoric together, and let me tell you, he was the very definition of a free spirit, filled with love and romance. Couldn't be tangled or tamed by any professor, let alone by the tenets of the Eternal Fire! To be honest, I'd sooner believe in the Eternal Fire myself than seeing Graden believing it."

"Well, life is full of surprises."

"But it doesn't have to be your life that has the surprise," Triss intervened, "this looks like a trap however you put it. News of Menge's death has gone out already. Witch hunters are searching for his killers like wolves these days. Graden certainly already had his suspicions! This is his way to lure you into a trap, and I cannot bear the thought…"

"But making up a ghost story doesn't set a convincing trap. Complaining about a ghoul infestation in the graveyard, or a drowner problem in the sewer, and a witcher would fall right in. This business of a monster next door just doesn't cut it."

"But you don't have to risk it," Triss's voice sounded almost like a plea, "what if it is a trap, what would happen to those who… care about you?"

"That's exactly why I will go and get to the bottom of this, to see what exactly they are planning, to see how much they know about the killer of Menge and how they plan to catch the next sorceress."

"Why, Geralt? You know I can't bear the thought of losing someone that I…"

"Because neither can I."


	3. Chapter 3

As the sunrays swept pass the Novigrad fish market and landed on the far side of the port, another day of busy work is halfway done. The bustling fish market occupied a decently sized square right pass the canal. On display were fish of all four kinds available: living, dead, fried and pickled. Although at this time of the day it was mostly the latter three kinds that were still present. That was why all Novigrad fish sellers were cooks, for the leftover fresh fish from morning sales needed to be quickly cooked and jarred, and with that, smoke mixed with garlic and herbs rose high above the market, a feast for the gluttonous and cats. Rumor has it that if one found "the right person to talk to," one could get some juicy weapons. Nobody knew when this rumor first started.

Things were less optimistic around the docks. Dockhands' work of crate carrying was hardly done, and the chance of a break under the watchful eyes of dock masters and gang henchmen was as unlikely as stealing a coin from under the nose of Vimme Vivaldi. As such the workers developed a technique: they would raise their legs ridiculously high while walking with a crate, so to stretch the leg muscle and the back for a brief second. After the arrival of the latest patch of dock masters, however, they tended to stop doing this.

The door opened to a pale and freckled face. The kid behind it couldn't have been more than ten years old.

"Finally, someone came! Here, sir, do take some water for your trouble." The kid then served Geralt a cup, shiny of pure silver.

Geralt took a sip. "Well, well, silver cup. I don't even have to guess where you learned that from. What's your name, anyway?"

Seeing that Geralt's face did not undergo any unnatural transformation, the kid seemed more relaxed, he then proudly recounted his family occupation: "I'm Piotr, son of Graden. My dad commands the witch hunters!"

"Well, Piotr, a pleasure. Most kids your age don't write as well as you do. I guess you go to school, don't you?"

"I do, sir witcher. I go to Marabella's school! She wrote the notice in your hand, and she wrote beautifully didn't she? She also teaches us poetry and proper speaking. She once studied under the famous Master Dandelion himself!"

"I… see… Bit hard to imagine a kid with a powerful father like you would go to a school run on charity."

"Father insisted, said I need to learn from the poor, and no one objects what he says."

True to his words, the house he lived in did not undergo any fancy garnish. The wooden frame and plain walls were exactly as how Geralt remembered. Together they went up to the third floor where Piotr sleeps. A simple bedroom, with some kid's drawings and roughly bound books scattered around. Near the door was an adult-sized bed, probably belonged to the original owner, where Piotr slept now. Geralt looked under the bed, but didn't see anything unusual.

"So, describe this monster for me. What is it like, what does it do, and when does it appear?"

"Well, this monster, I think it's the wraith of my dead sister, because it looks just like her, but mighty uglier. It has no eyes. Ghosts don't have eyes, do they? So it must be a ghost. Its face looks weird, too!"

"Hmm, so you got a good look at this monster?"

"I did. It was a dark night about a week ago, I heard some noise under my bed in my sleep. Then something crawled out from under it. I faked my sleep and opened my eyes just a little bit, and then, I saw this monster standing beside my bed! I caught a look at her face from the moonlight. Mighty ugly it was! No eyes, face all… how do you say it… deformed, and bloody looking! Covered in sores, never seen a scarier thing in my life! Dad always taught me to be brave, but I dared not move a hair! After a bit, it floated out of my room! When I finally got the gut to get out of bed and go to the corridor, it disappeared, nowhere to be found!"

"So I assume you must have told your dad about it."

"Right I did! But he said I was just daydreaming, said there's no such thing as ghost. Sure enough, the ghost never returned since. But I _know_ I wasn't dreaming!"

"Hmm… Your dead sister, tell me about her."

"Her name was Renata. And she is dead. Sorceresses killed her! It was about two months ago, when we still lived in Oxenfurt. Somehow Renata got into a fight with a sorceress! She wanted to buy something, but the sorceress wouldn't sell it, so they got into a fight. Sorceress used magic to beat her...[sniff, sniff] I came home from school one afternoon, saw dad running out carrying my sister, blood running down from her! [Sniff] He hopped into a carriage and went off to the hospital, but the nurse there couldn't help her. [Sniff] We buried her outside the town."

"Sad story, although if it really happened that way, the ghost should seek vengeance of the sorceress instead of you. Anyway, evidence don't lie." Geralt bent and looked under the boy's bed. There was nothing.

"Hmm, any traces left behind would be hard to pick out after a week. Gonna use my senses."

"Do you always talk out loud to yourself, sir witcher?"

"Ah, that, ahem, just a bit of professional habit."

Eager to escape the embarrassment, Geralt concentrated his mind. His pupils enlarged, nostrils expanded, and he caught a fading scent, similar to alcohol, and vaguely resembles detergent. He had smelt it somewhere recently… No mistake, it was formaldehyde. Geralt tried not to think why a ghost would have that kind of smell. Like a hound, he closed his eyes and focused on his smell. His nose led him out of the room, across the corridor, and ended up in front of a wall. He might have been fooled had he not come here before during his chase after Dandelion, but Geralt knew there was something behind the wall, for it was once the secret doorway to Dandelion's bomb lab. _A secret room, what's the meaning of this?_

"What's the meaning of this?!"

Geralt turned around to a menacing face of Graden, once witch hunter of Velen, and now Menge's successor. He stood in the doorway, hands on the handle of his sword. His twisted lips and locked eyebrows made him even more resemble an elf, a Scoia'tael fighter elf.

"Dad? You came back early today…"

"Inviting a witcher here to investigate that ghost story of yours? You are getting out of control, Piotr. Go into your room, now… Now then, witcher Geralt of Rivia, our paths cross once again. But this time, I am prepared."

With that, Graden suddenly tossed a small, spherical object out of the window. It exploded into a gust of red flare like a firecracker.

Seeing the bomb did not fly his way, Geralt withdrew his Quen shield.

Graden pointed his sword at Geralt, "Sneaky as always, witcher. Menge was impious, but he was cautious and able, except for that one time with you. I will not be so easy. I know you would come for me next, and for whoever comes after me. A witcher contract just provided you with the most perfect excuse. Well planned, killer for hire, well planned. Now, drop your weapon, witcher, and you may enjoy a quick death."

"Didn't come for anyone, except the ghost, but that was the least of my concerns. I hear four, no, five men running upstairs. You brought your backup."

As Geralt spoke, there in front of him lined up five additional witch hunters, in their armor of leather and chainmail, pointing up their swords that glowed in a faint purple with dimeritium rune stones.

"Well, well, no better way to kill a man than to first make him look as if a killer. Luring me into your house, then setting a trap to kill a witch hunter killer, brilliant plan, but you still made a mistake."

"What mistake?"

"You should have brought more men."

The small upper floor could hardly contain the whirlwind of death. Two dimeritium bombs soared across the narrow corridor and landed themselves on a glowing Quen shield. Finely grounded dust filled the air with a faint green glow. Geralt was no sorcerer, but even he could feel the air becoming dense, soggy, insulant, as if no magic can penetrate. Geralt slowly backed to the wall. Seeing he had nowhere to run, two witch hunters charged at full speed. Their swords held at the left side, revealing their intention to thrust them upward at Geralt's chest. That was their first and last mistake. Geralt quickly kicked the wall behind him and bounced himself forward, hovering low. Using his right knee as a fulcrum he pirouetted right below the trajectory of the witch hunters' swords, all while tracing his sword in a semicircle and cut delicately yet accurately into a witch hunter's heel cord. The other one slashed backward, but the sound of his sword through the air was all that was needed to let Geralt determine its direction. He back parried, throwing the witch hunter's sword to a side, threw a quick feint punch and thrust his sword through the witch hunter's belly.

The remaining witch hunters formed a wall of sword. Geralt sidestepped to one end launched two quick strikes before sidestepping to the other side, always making sure he was only facing one opponent. Witch hunters were thrown into a confusion, for their eyes could barely match the movement of the witcher's sword. All of a sudden the little upper room was filled with reflections off the cold metal of a witcher's blade, yet their own never seemed to hit. Geralt was everywhere yet nowhere. His feet were that of a dancer, tracing on the ground some mysterious semicircles and back steps. His arms were that of an acrobat, moving in ways unknown to men's sword fighting. His sword was an extension of himself, diving in and out of the swings of the witch hunters yet never caught. Before long, the whirlwind of sword clashes and splinters began to be mixed in with blood.

When the dance concluded, it revealed itself to be a dance of death. Five witch hunters lied on the ground in their own blood and sometimes entrails. Some still panting, some already dead still. Graden's sword was no longer a weapon, but a walking stick. He leaned on the sword, barely standing, to free one hand to press against his right shoulder from which blood still gushes out.

"Ha, brutal force. Now I know how Menge could fail. You better do it quickly and begone from here before more men show up, killer for hire."

"Told you, I didn't come for anyone, except for that ghost living in the…"

A small crack came from the end of the doorway. A button pushed, and a wall opened.

"…the secret…room…"

The hidden door opened, behind it was the old lab where Dandelion made the bomb that blew up Dijkstra's treasure room. But Geralt could not take his eyes away, for there in the doorway stood a small figure, a girl who couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen. "His sister's ghost," Geralt's gut reaction, but that was not right. His necklace did not vibrate. There was no magic, no ghost or wraith, but something was not quite right with the girl, something that made Geralt unable to quite call her "alive."

"Daddy!" The girl rushed to Graden and leapt into his arms.

"No! No, no, no…" Graden's face burst into joy for a millisecond before it cringed into twisted lips and locked eyebrows, as if just tasted the bitterest herb.

Suddenly the girl turned her face toward Geralt.

Geralt had seen much, too much, that would startle even kings, yet even he uncontrollably took a step backward and gasped at what was in front of him. For what a face he saw! Words could not describe, for he saw a living noonwraith in human flesh.

"Stop! Don't hurt my dad."

That voice seemed to have come from another world, for its sweetness could not match the face that uttered it. The face was a puzzle of scars. Deep cuts, small cuts, those red and purple scars, like scarlet snakes, had crawled and chewed away every inch of the youthful and bright face that would have belonged to a girl of this age, leaving behind small and irregular heaps of sickening growths and infections that tainted the face like a dung house thrown into an elven bathhouse.

"Stop! Sir witcher, please."

The girl's left eye was blind. A scar ran right across it to the side. Several cuts rested above her eyelids, turning it into a web of dark red lines. Tumors and growths have squeezed her left eye out of symmetry, and the same could be said about the rest of her face. Her jaws and lips were twisted with scars. Two giant cuts ran through her cheeks, as if someone was chopping meat off her face.

"Witcher, please don't hurt him? He is a good man, a good dad. He raised me to be beautiful!"

And now Geralt finally was able to pinpoint where exactly was "off" about her. Her healthy eye opened big toward Geralt and batted, its pure sapphire color shone like a butterfly resting on a corpse. She was different from other girls with wounds. Her eye knew no shame or regret, no doubt or remorse. Her face was that of a war refugee, yet her eye was that of a princess.

Graden panted and stretched out his arm, grabbed the girl into his chest.

"So that was the wraith that haunted Piotr, the monster beneath his bed…"

Although the witcher did not know which was worse, to be a wraith wandering the netherworld, or to live like one. But his thoughts could not hold above his pounding heart, for beyond the deformed face, beyond the bloody bodies of the witch hunters, beyond all of that, Geralt saw a father holding a daughter to the chest, and he knew the feeling. Had Ciri got one step deeper with Whoreson Junior, what new scars would be added onto her cheek? What does her face look like? She seemed so distant yet so close. For a while, Geralt could not move. His senses were overcome by something far away that he did not notice what was approaching closely, until a new unit of witch hunters and Redanian soldiers appeared in front of him.

Geralt's eyes were still fixed onto the kneeling father and the deformed daughter in a pool of blood when he was cuffed and pushed away.


	4. Chapter 4

The bright fire of torches and burning stakes made Novigrad's Temple Isle a bright star at night. The flame in the lofty main temple never stopped burning, although its light was obscured by smokes from burnt books, scrolls, and sometimes human.

The witcher was familiar with the shouting. It was the shouting of a large, angry mob of people, united by hatred. The last time he heard it was before he died, in Rivia. That was for the non-humans, this time for the mages. The witcher had always known, that nothing unites men more than common hatred, for in front of the hated, men felt like better beings. There is no sweeter taste than that.

But he would not start fighting this time, for he was bound by dimeritium handcuffs, and held firm by a squad of witch hunters. Graden led them, despite the bandage on his shoulder.

The gate to the Square of the Eternal Fire opened to a group not unlike the one he faced in Rivia. Their clothes barely covered them, yet they shouted until the blood vessels bulged on their necks like giant earthworms.

"Gold from these dirty sorceresses, now yours!"

"Yeah! Yeah!"

A priest sent fly pieces of gold from a giant pile of confiscated trinkets. A wave of cheering ensued, mixed with curses to the sorceress and praise to the Eternal Fire.

"They stole it from you, now you get it back!"

"Yeah! Oh-ho!"

Another shower of gold, ruby and emerald, and another wave of hysterical noise filled the air already saturated with smoke, blood and sweat.

"Tyranny of the sorceresses ends here!"

"Death! Death to the sorceresses!"

Geralt's entourage stopped. Graden stood and refused to move. His eyes fixed on the scene, and Geralt saw his eyes beginning to moist. He viewed the scene as if an artist appreciating a masterpiece.

"Commander, we need to…"

But Graden did not move his eyes nor his steps. "Geralt," still fixing his eyes on the mob, "did you know, I've always been a man of freedom. Seeing the oppression of these poor folks lifted, it speaks to my heart."

"Yeah, at the cost of oppressing somebody else."

"The sorceresses had it coming!" Graden all of a sudden burst into anger, for a quick second, Geralt saw in his eyes the same flame that burns in the eyes of every one of the angry crowd. But the flame did not last long. Graden quickly straightened himself, swallowed, and regained the calm posture.

"Move on."

"Which honorable host summons me this time?" Geralt asked.

"Hmm, honorable indeed. It's Hierarch Hammelfart himself."

Hierarch Hammelfart was a mystery even to the closer circles of the Eternal Fire priesthood. Words had it that his power network was so extensive that he himself did not even need to grace the Temple Isle with his holy feet. Yet somehow he always knew how to take a cut from the Eternal Fire treasury. Words had it that he does not even exist, but then, there were those who swore they had seen him. Geralt was about to join the latter group.

And there he headed forward into the tallest tower on Temple Isle, for the first and last time. The main sanctuary was glistening in a criminating scarlet from the fire outside. Its reflective marble columns and floor tiles blinked like a thousand bloodshot eyes at the passing witcher. In the middle, there was the hearth. Beneath a stone niche that was so huge it was intimidating, there burned a seed of the Eternal Fire, whose flickering light looked as if about to leap out of the fireplace, and devour much more.

But the witcher's escorts did not stop there. Geralt was taken into a smaller backroom through a series of side doors and one or two spiral staircases, under the gazes of previous generations of priests and cardinals, whose serious countenances were made even less expressive by being in paintings.

When the heavy redwood door opened, Geralt found himself stepping into a small inner chamber, half of which was taken up by a somewhat molded confessional. Geralt could see a robed man sitting in one of the small chambers. Although the man's upper body was hidden in the shadow of the confessional, the delicate tassel made of gold lines and the glistening rubies on his lower garment could not escape Geralt's eyes. This had to be Hierarch Hammelfart himself.

"Most Excellent, Most Reverend Hierarch Hammelfart, the witcher is here."

A hand reached out from shadow and waved the witcher over. The hand was pale, its joints bulged. Were it not for the three gem-imbedded rings, it would remind people more of a vulture's talon. The same hand waved the witch hunters away, except for Graden.

Graden closed the curtain halfway, leaving a small window of light beaming into the dark confessional chamber where Geralt took seat, revealing dusts dancing like fireflies.

"Here to hear my penitence, Hierarch?"

The other person did not move anything but his lips.

"No, I'm here to offer you your salvation."

There was something to his voice that struck a remote chord in Geralt's memory.

"Wasn't aware that I needed one."

"But you do, witcher, and your wit will not change a thing," Hierarch Hammelfart continued calmly, "you are a dead man, witcher. Nobody escapes the charge of killing, nay, murdering witch hunters, en masse. Your public burning will be tomorrow morning at Hierarch Square. The only reason you are still alive is because I intervened on your behalf."

"Very noble of you, truly worthy of a Hierarch."

"I will take your sarcasm as a sign of desperation, which you should be, considering you are out of power and out of options. But have faith, you do have a way out of your desolation… and I do have a proposal."

"I'm all ears, like a true penitent."

"It pays off to be like one this time. The solution is simple: letting Triss Merigold take your place. We have placed several carefully selected rumors of your death sentence, and location of your cell. Surely she will come to your rescue as you did to her. We will just pluck her like a little marigold. Do not protest. See, you used her as a bait to get Menge, it is only fair to use you as a bait to get her, don't you agree?"

"You know about Menge?"

"Of course I do. Do you really think your little scheme with that sorceress could go unnoticed? And do you really think there just happened to be fewer guards on that night? Do you really think the courtyard just happened to be empty? Nothing is quite so coincidental."

"And since you were the only person who could command witch hunters above Menge…"

"… I simply withdrew the forces to Oxenfurt prison, and let Menge have the evening to die for. Oh, don't show that astonishment, Menge was but a brainless fanatic. A person like him was crucial to start a movement, but once the movement is under way, his fanatical life began to make more trouble than his worth. His death, on the other hand, would nicely spice up our hatred against the sorceresses. That Triss is a fierce character. I was sure she would do something stupid if she gets her way, but it was just simply beyond spectacular what she did. She burned the headquarters down! And thus, finally gave us a living proof of how destructive sorceresses are. We had more than a hundred volunteers joining the witch hunters the next day, all thanks to you and your sorceress girlfriend's heroism," three wry claps slowly followed, "my gratitude, witcher, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I'd even reward you, had I not known your type better."

"Gonna admit, I do hate it when played as a pawn."

"Hahaha, so did Menge! But that's the point of the game, witcher. Sometimes, you fight with your pawns, but sometimes, you have to sacrifice the pawns to checkmate the king."

"Had no idea your Reverend is well versed in chess. I can't help but wonder if you know of a little chess club down in Oxenfurt?"

"Very good, witcher, you picked that up. How can I forget that chess club? After all, that was where we first met in a long while…"

As he spoke, he turned his face over and opened the curtain to a side. The dim and flickering torch light nevertheless perfectly outlined the silhouette of a face Geralt wished to always avoid yet always failed – the face of King Radovid of Redania.

"Your highness, why am I not surprised. Never seen up close, and every portrait depicts a bald man. An intense hatred for sorceresses, hmm, I should have guessed. I'm curious, how much does it take to buy an ecclesiastical office these days?"

"Trivial… compared to the sorceresses' property we have confiscated. This position has proven to be… far more lucrative than I expected."

"Even including the cost of bribing a battalion of priests to preach your message of burning sorceresses?"

"Hahaha, that's beauty of it all – I didn't have to bribe anyone." Radovid looked away, his eyes curved as if smiling. "Half a year ago, when I stood on the mountainside overlooking Loc Muine, bathed in sorceress blood, do you know what I said?" He did not look at the witcher, but was lost in memory with a satisfying smile on his face, remembering his own ingenuity. That moment of perfect ego shed more light for Geralt than any other moment on why Radovid was truly mad.

"No, but I have a feeling you are about to tell me."

"'In the beginning, there was chaos.' You see, witcher, no group of priests, no chapels of the Eternal Fire, could ever start such a massive, powerful purge of sorceresses in a short six months. No, that simply wouldn't happen. But what would happen, if I let a large amount of sorceresses, recently survived a purge and desperate to regain power, flow into Novigrad freely, and all at once? Hahaha, of course I let that happen. Why do you suppose I left a door for them in Loc Muine? Why do you suppose I carefully placed my knights to shove them north? Those ambitious bitches, so used to their luxurious lives at royal courts, so used to brandishing their superior magic, they took over the trade from merchants with their connections; they took over the business from craftsmen with their magical baubles; they took over sales from herbalists with their alchemy; By the time when I took over the Church, things were quite simple. We simply rallied the poor, preached the message of retaking their livelihood, and pointed finger at the sorceresses, and there you have it. I needed not an Eternal Fire, but just an Eternal Spark, to ignite all those agonizing tensions into a beautiful witch hunt. Because in the beginning, there was already chaos. Witcher, there was already chaos."

Graden grabbed the witcher and walked out of the room. The echo of Radovid still haunted their departure, as he was chanting, not unlike a monk of the Eternal Fire, the one verse repeatedly: "in the beginning, there was chaos… in the beginning, there was chaos."

It was past midnight when the witcher emerged from Temple Isle with his witch hunter escorts. Under the light of the moon and fire on stakes, they walked past the stone-paved upper quarter, and descended into the Bits. Wide streets gave way to narrow alleys; sounds of music and chanting gave way to raucous cries and crude curses. The appearance of a battalion of witch hunters startled some street thugs who clustered in threes or fives around every dark corner of the street. Their faces, smeared with dirt, sweat and blood, made them even harder to distinguish from the equally dirty walls they stood in front of. Many of them held a blackjack or a dagger pouch.

Geralt could not keep count of how many times his escort had turned. If the Bits were a maze of narrow paths, they were certainly in the middle of it now.

"Commander, we are not marching to the prison?"

Graden turned around and said "no, our journey ends here."

Before the other guard could react, a bolt flew out of the dark shadow shrouding the one-way alley, and sank into the chest of the witch hunters at Geralt's left. Graden thrusted his sword into the guard to Geralt's left. The rest of the guards could barely react before another bolt pierced one more. Geralt, still bound in dimeritium shackles, leapt to his feet and tackled the guard behind him, just when the latter was about to shift his center of gravity to his forward leg. A remaining guard dropped his weapon and started to run, but he couldn't outrun a crossbow bolt. The escort of six decreased to one.

"Clear…"

Heard Graden's word, a figure stood up from the shadow of jagged roofs and walked out into the moon light, still holding a crossbow in hand. Suddenly Geralt recognized something familiar – the posture of walking, the bristle short hair, the tight battle jacket…

"Tamara?"


	5. Chapter 5

The house where Geralt was taken to was a pale shamble of wooden walls, hidden among a myriad of other similarly rundown apartments. The smell of piss and cooking oil filled the air, whereas dust and splinter filled the floor.

"Nice hideout."

"True words, witcher. I chose it carefully. Not even witch hunters ventured much into the Bits. We are safe here."

"Hmm, from these shackles I'd never have guessed." Geralt twitched his arms and legs, both still clammed tightly in dimeritium chains.

Graden turned to Geralt. His lips parted for a hesitant second before they were closed again. Tamara emerged from the inner room in time to break the silence.

"How's Renata?"

"Sound asleep, but otherwise, not so well… It was a lot for her…" Tamara said in a low voice.

"Did you bring the mirror?"

"Yes, I managed to grab it before they found it. It's with her now."

"Thank you, Tamara. You have been a good sister to her."

"So it was you who wanted the magic mirror?" Geralt interfered.

Graden turned and took a seat beside Geralt, facing a dimly lit fireplace as Tamara tiptoed into the inner room, where Renata and Piotr had fallen asleep.

"I suppose it is high time to explain everything for you. After all, I am required to deal with people as fairly as possible within my power, as the holy book teaches. Yes, I hired you to clear the sewer for us, so we could grab the magic mirror. Couldn't get it out of my mind ever since I read a report on it a week ago."

Geralt was at a loss of words. Her daughter, Renata, and her face… "So… It was for Renata. I, eh, believe I can see why…"

"No need for courtesy, witcher. We both know what her face truly looks like."

"So, you constructed a fantasy for her. One that she would not realize how she actually looked?"

"That is exactly what I did. Infection from the wounds have set in, and she doesn't have much longer to live. With the mirror, at least she will die believing she has always been beautiful."

"Magic treatments can heal her, but, guessing that option has been crossed out of your mind, being a witch hunter and all…"

"I would never trust another mage. It was them that got Renata like this in the first place."

"I figured, that's the reason why you joined the witch hunters huh? Renata was the last nail on the coffin."

"Indeed she was, the last nail of my sinful life. Witcher, I don't expect you to understand, but a massive herd of sorceresses suddenly appearing out of nowhere… it changed more than what you can imagine. You see, witcher, one reason why we received donations even from brothels was because the sorceresses took their business away. All of a sudden, even the most popular girl in Paciflora looked plain in front of those magically beautiful sorceresses.

"Shamefully, I was indulging in my own, detestable sin. I was drunk with whoring, and soon I began to fancy sorceresses only. You may laugh when people say that sorceresses used magic to seduce their minds, but is it not so far from the truth, when sorceresses made themselves beautiful beyond humanly possible? Many of them just narrowly escaped a pogrom; they were willing to resort to whatever business to keep themselves safe. For half a year I opened my house, my wine cellar, my wallet, to one sorceress after another. We indulged in sinful pleasure until daybreak, and we would do it again when night falls. And Renata, she was watching all of it.

"I should have seen the warning signs earlier, much earlier, but I was consumed by my pleasure with sorceresses to divert any attention to Renata. All those questions she asked, 'why am I not as beautiful as sorceresses,' 'Why aren't my eyes as big as a sorceress'?' 'Why isn't my face as slim as a sorceress'?' 'Why am I so much fatter than the sorceresses?' But I brushed them aside, as a silly girl's complaints, but little did I know how much beauty meant for her. Or rather, how much it hurt to have her attention taken away and onto the sorceresses.

"So she went to buy magical potions, fancy elixirs, but she couldn't afford them. In the end, she stumbled across some vile street mage, a creature so depraved of anything humane that she sold her a magical knife, said to be enchanted to cut with no pain and leave no scars. She even took thirty coins for that garbage, a simple dagger coated in celandine and beggerstick oil. Of course not enchanted, but enough to cheat a little girl. With that, Renata cut herself. First on the cheek, felt no pain, then cut again on her eyelid, then on her cheekbones, again and again."

Graden looked forward into the fire. Despite his perfectly calm voice, something was shining in his eyes.

"When I got home, her face was covered in blood, the monster of a woman who sold her the dagger was long gone. I took her to Oxenfurt hospital, but it was too late to save her face…"

Graden buried his face in his hands. No cries, no sobbing, not even a repressed moan, but his silence was even more unbearable.

"And guess what she asked me when she first woke up? 'Dad, am I as pretty as a sorceress?'" Graden finally lost his monotone, but regained composure just as quickly, "and I joined the witch hunters the next day."

"Hatred against one does not necessitate choosing the other."

"But I decided my days of inaction were over. And between those two, witch hunters were the lesser evil."

With that, both Geralt and Graden sighed.

"Touching story. I would probably be truly moved to tears had you not hunted so many sorceresses."

Graden suddenly stood up, "you, your mind is nothing better! I read reports about you, witcher Geralt of Rivia, the lover of sorceresses! Who hasn't heard, how you bound your fate to Yennefer, how you spent countless nights in Vizima with Triss. Oh you, the lover and defender of sorceresses, do not pretend you represent a higher moral order. You are just the same, a man driven by lust as degraded as animals, after the sorceresses' beautiful faces and boobs."

Geralt suddenly rose out of his seat, not weighed down by shackles in the tiniest bit, "except her body was the last thing I saw when we first met. It is a pity, after having so many sorceresses on your bed, you still haven't learned a thing about loving them. You treated them like whores, and you complain about them being like whores. You treated them like playthings, and you complain about them treating others like playthings. You were right I wasn't here when the sorceresses flooded in, but I sure am damn certain the lesser evil is not on your side."

"You are Right!" Graden shouted, "The lesser evil is on the side of my daughter! But look at what happened to her, to the lesser evil! How dare you tell me about good and evil in a world like ours? In the end, can you truly say you've chosen the right side with the sorceresses? Would you have chosen them if they hurt your daughter instead of training her, and would you have loved them if they would not let you f*ck them, and if they were as ugly as… as a… a…"

"A hunchback."

"Yes, a… a hunchback, would you still love her?"

"Yes, I would."

Graden could not help but pause for a brief second, not only by the answer, but by the calmness of Geralt's voice. He stared into the witcher's mutated eyes, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not see the slightest clue of deceit. He could not believe it, but he was truly standing in front of a man who would love a hunchback, and perhaps he already does.

"It matters not. Tomorrow evening we will meet with your sorceress friend, Triss, and you will be our hostage."

"A hostage, for what ransom?"

"For healing my daughter."

The street outside had been shrouded in a dark velvet blanket. Novigrad had fallen into deep sleep, and the chill that usually companies a starless night felt a bit stronger in the windowless apartment where Geralt and his captors stayed. The witcher lied down on the straw mattress. The air was still, the moon was still. Against this background of still life, the hushed chatter in the next room rippled through the silent air, into the superhuman ears of Geralt's.

"You were too hard on Geralt," the voice of Tamara, "he has the warmth of the Eternal Fire in him, I can feel it."

There was a long silence, but Graden eventually broke it.

"You are right, Tamara. After all, we know neither the day nor the hour, and that's why we can't judge hastily." After a pause, Graden continued, "you know, Tamara, you may not want to admit it, but years in Crow's Perch had made you wise."

Tamara took a deep breath, "even if wisdom is the prize, I would never wanted to…"

"I know, it is still hard for you. But if you could see the Eternal Fire in others, why couldn't you see it in your father?"

"Commander, we've talked about this…"

Some scuffles on the bed interrupted their conversation. Graden hurried to Renata's bedside.

"What do you want, baby girl? Water, no problem…"

"I'll get it," Tamara went out of the room. Some sound of ladle dipping into a water barrel, and Tamara came back. Then Geralt heard only silence as Renata gulped down the water and kissed Graden goodnight. With that, Graden and Tamara slowly and quietly strode out of the inner room in front of the window.

"You have been so good to Renata, why is that?"

"I suppose when I see her, I see a bit of myself. Young girl, wronged by things not our fault, see no hope, y'know."

"You see yourself in her, but you did not see a bit of me in your father?"

"You were different… When I met you, you have already changed… I know, I know, my father was changing, but that was different. Having seen him drunk, fighting like boar, kicking my mother for two decades… If he had only stick to whoring, things would surely have been better."

"There are no better or worse sins…"

"… in front of the Eternal Fire, I know. It's just, I need something… some kind of proof that my father has truly changed. When I saw you, you were already so different, you were already such a good father."

"What kind of proof do you need? And if you don't see one, would you go on forever loathing your father, against the warmth of the Eternal Fire in your heart?"

"I don't know. I don't know what proof I'm looking for, but I just haven't found it at the moment."

"I won't push you."

"I'm sorry commander," Tamara hurried to an apology. She didn't even realize it that she had put a hand on Graden's shoulder.

"Tamara, I'm no longer a commander. I have betrayed the witch hunter order. If it is a commander you're looking for, I won't be a good example."

"I'm sorry then," Tamara hesitated for a second, "Graden."

Name always matters. Associates may call you by titles, but only friends call you by name. The silent pause Geralt heard was to him a startle, on Graden's part, of how long he had not heard his name being called, let alone being called as gently as that.

Graden hugged Tamara. Tamara leaned her head on Graden's shoulder. In front of them, the first beams of sunlight was just tearing through the dark blanket of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Ever since the death of Whoreson Junior, the underground arena had truly given up to the mold and mushrooms competing for a living space. Nobody dared come close; nobody wanted to. But tonight, two groups of people chose it as a meeting place. One group had five people, including a prisoner, and someone who held a girl in his arms. The other group, five as well, with one female, and four dwarves. Both groups wore hoods, and both carefully bypassed all the witch hunters along the way.

"No need to distrust us. It's not a trap," said Graden, who removed the hood of his prisoner beside him, revealing the white hair of Geralt the witcher.

A woman gasped. She removed her hood, revealing the fiery red hair beneath. A dwarf also took off her hood, revealing that unmistakable Mohawk hair of Zoltan.

"Shite, that really is him."

"Geralt, if these bastards mistreated you, I'll…" It didn't take a witcher's sense to see something shiny in her eyes.

"It's okay, Triss. He needs something from you."

With that, Graden walked forward, carrying a sleeping girl in his arms.

"My daughter Renata, I want you to heal her."

Triss gasped again as she saw Renata's face for the first time. For a moment, the disdain she wore on her face almost gave into sadness. In front of her was a child, or a teen, whose peaceful and calm sleep seemed so out of place from the scars that slashed her face into irregular geometrical shapes.

"Heal her, and I will return Geralt to you. No harm has come to him, yet. But try any tricks, and both you and your witcher lover will regret it."

"The last thing I would do is trusting a witch hunter."

"The last thing I would do is trusting a sorceress. But that's what hostage is for, isn't it."

Triss looked at Geralt, then at Graden, and finally at the young girl, the shattered beauty lying on the wooden table in the middle.

"I need to cast a diagnostic spell."

Graden grabbed Geralt and nodded.

Triss extended her hands, tracing an intricate web of lines in the air, while a glowing silver light gently kissed the cheek of Renata.

"How does it look?" Graden asked.

"Not good. I will have to induce a coma, clean the scar tissues one by one, then regenerate new tissues from deep under the skin," she paused, and resumed, "it will be painful."

Graden did not say a thing, he only breathed.

"Do whatever it takes."

Triss's nimble fingers hovered over Renata's face. Each of her fingertips drifted like the brush tip of an artist, drawing diagrams in the air. An orange glow began to shroud over Renata's face. The sleeping girl's eyes remained closed, but her breaths became heavy. With a sudden lift of hands and a chant, the girl's upper body rose with it, and her face began to twitch. Only slightly at first, but gradually, she twitched more, her head shook left and right, and her countenance came closer and closer to crying. Graden's eyes were fixed upon Renata, and his grasp clutched tighter and tighter on Geralt's arm.

Geralt could hear his breathes becoming heavier as Renata's face twisted under his watch. Her lips began to part, and blood vessels began to bulge on her tattered forehead. It was only a matter of time: she let out a scream. A muffled, but audible, clear, and painful scream.

"That's enough!" Graden rushed to Renata, reached out his hands to her face, only to freeze midair as he hesitated on whether to interfere with a magic procedure. His hands only shook and trembled awkwardly.

He didn't say stop. A few seconds later, he stood up straight again and asked, "is there any way to stop the pain?"

"I would suggest Geralt to use his Axii sign to calm her, but for such a young mind, Axii may cause permanent mental damage. There is another way. Someone who is close to her can link her body to her, and share the pain."

"I will do it!" said Graden without hesitation, "link me to her."

"Sorry but…" Triss responded, "only a female body would work. Different sexes have different ways of processing pain... unexpected complication, you won't do."

"I'll do it."

The group looked to the small figure standing in the back. Tamara removed her hood, walked forward and took Renata by the hand, and said again, "I'll do it."

Graden stared at her for a few seconds, his throat moved, eventually into the sound of "thank you."

Triss resumed, her fingers once again started to dance in the air, tracing soft curves along some invisible and intricate diagram. Renata's face and her body rose and fell under Triss's tender movements. Tamara twitched as Triss started the magic, but she didn't make a sound. Her eyes were fixed on Renata, so were everyone's. In front of their eyes, a long, crimson scar on her left cheek began to shorten, as if a misplaced stroke from an amateur artist is being erased from the canvas, revealing the beautiful landscape beneath it. By the time it was gone, one could have never said anything but flattery to her perfectly angled cheek.

Triss looked up and sighed a muffled relief. "The eyes… are going to be much more difficult… and painful."

"I can do it," Tamara confirmed.

Triss nodded, and resumed. The gentle and gracious dance of her fingertips began to swirl, retract, grab, and pierce. The lines she traced morphed into a zigzag of sharp turns and rapid twists. A wave of pain electrocuted through Renata's face, and a wave of nervousness through Graden's. Tamara bent even lower.

The inevitable had to come. Renata gave out a cry. Clogged at her throat at first, the cry burst through her lips in piercing pitch. It was the kind of cry that nobody expects from a child, and therefore nobody could bare. Least of all Graden. He bent closer to Renata, but still could do nothing.

This time the cry came from Tamara. With one hand she held Renata's hand, yet her other hand clutched onto her eye, trying to numb the pain in vain. With a new incantation from Triss, her knees hit the ground.

But all of a sudden, the witcher, until now seemingly unaffected, rose to tension. His head turned to the side briskly, his eyes enlarged, his brows locked.

"Damnit, is there a cemetery nearby?"

"Cemetery?" Zoltan wondered, "why nae, city folks naever bury their dead behind the walls. Well, except the sewers, they dump their dead lots down there."

"Shit. Untie me, wraiths are coming." Geralt said to Graden, with the unemotional tune of a professional.

It took Geralt's second repeat that Graden came to his senses and realized the nature of his request.

"No way witcher, I'm not letting you go until…"

"Quickly, wraiths are coming. They are almost at the sewer gate. You will then either relocate and have those glowing ghosts chasing us all over the city, or be killed."

"Wraiths? What…what are you talking about?"

"Suffering of an innocent person, it disturbs the aura and draws wraiths, and it just so happens we are standing on a dead body dumping ground. Untie me and give me my silver sword, now."

"This… this is some trick, isn't…" but before he could finish, the first green glow had appeared at the sewer gate. A ragged body, face coated in a layer of torn rug, drifted out of the sewer with a sword in his hand.

Zoltan's dwarves and the witch hunters shuddered so much that they stood side by side without realizing it, for they saw not only the wraith, but the dozens of dim, chilling green glows behind it.

Tamara suddenly looked up and cried: "Untie him! Graden!"

"But how can I trust him?"

"Because he, too, has a daughter."

Witcher suddenly felt his wrists released. Instead of the vaguely warm and vibrating dimeritium, his hand felt the familiar elasticity of leather wrapping around the hilt of his feline silver sword. Like a silver lightning he dashed toward the wraith. The silver glow from his sword and the green glow from the wraith clashed into each other, but left no spark or splinter. There is no need to compete with a wraith for speed, for it is not burdened by the weight of flesh. The witcher pirouetted, traced his sword across the wraith's chest. It was not like cutting through flesh, as much as swinging through thick air, but Geralt knew that he hit. But he didn't follow through the momentum from the pirouette to deliver another slash, as he would have done when fighting a human. Instead he controlled and came to a full stop. For a millisecond there the whole world was quiet. The wraith vanished.

Then at his back the green glow rose again. But the witcher had already concentrated fully. Before the wraith's sword could penetrate the green glow, Geralt tumbled forward two steps, leaving the wraith's attack landing empty. When the wraith rose back, it could only see Geralt's fingers tracing in front of it the sign of Axii. A gush of magic energy rushed to the wraith and stunned it, immediately two heavy strikes from Geralt dissipated the wraith into thin air.

"How much longer?"

"Another hour at least. I can accelerate but the pain will be unbearable."

"Accelerate it!" Tamara said, then she added "no matter how many time I will say stop, go through with it."

Triss nodded and continued dancing with her fingers, whereas Geralt continued dancing with his swords. He jumped into a cluster of green lights, and a whirlwind of silver flashes erupted from their midst. He lept leftward and slashed right across a wraith, then immediately turned back and casted the Quen sign. A golden shield rose in the nick of time to explode against the simultaneous strikes of two wraiths reappearing behind him. Two more had emerged from the sewer.

"… No, no, stop, I can't…" Tamara cried.

The witcher could only rely on his speed now. He took a step back, and drew on the ground the sign of Yrden. Around him a purple circle of glyphs glowed. Wraiths swarmed toward Geralt, yet, as if hitting bone chilling air, their bodies were pulled back by a hundred invisible hands stretching from the ground. The witcher opened his dance of death, swinging and spinning in the midst. He knew he had to keep up the dance. With the help of the sign, he could now spin faster than a wraith can strike. He could now deflect their strikes from any angle.

"… No, stop it. Someone, one more, one more, bare it with me!"

The witcher swirled in and out of the crowd of wraiths. An overhead rotating strike had sent several wraiths flying, but the witcher barely missed a thrust from the back, a piercing pain punched through his left chest. He did not hear bones snapping or artery opening. He returned the favor with a feint thrust that sent the wraith flying backward, before rotating a half circle and slashed diagonally across the wraith's head. But by the time the wraith vanished, three more had floated about.

"Ahh!" Tamara fell to the ground.

The circle of wraiths dissipated, but a sharp howl from the dark sewers only told Geralt of dozens more to come. His arm was bleeding, and he could feel internal hemorrhage on his lower right gut. He was panting heavily.

"No, no, someone, someone help me. Someone take it away from me!" Tamara's cry almost muffled the wraiths'.

Wraith, suffering, child… All of sudden an idea came to Geralt's mind, one that he had almost forgotten, perhaps he was trying to, but couldn't.

"Tamara, call Dea."

"What? Who's Dea?"

"Just call her!"

Tamara gathered the last bit of her strength, stared into the dark sky, and cried out, with all the desperation he had been undertaking, a loud, wailing, "Deaaaa!"

The air froze, and the wind stopped. The stars shone no longer, for a brighter star flashed, somewhere on the southern horizon. For a second or two, Geralt thought his sense cheated him, but then he felt it. A strong aura pierced through the stale, molded air of the sewer. A gush of wind came rushing to his ears. Trees bent, grass parted, and there it was, through the city gate, on the horizon facing the forever sad Velen, a small dot appeared. A silver comet, dragging a long tail, parted the impenetrable darkness of the night. It rushed closer, so close, in just the blink of an eye. Even Triss couldn't help but to look away at it. It came to Tamara, and reached out a small, deformed, but shining hand.

Tamara grabbed it. She would grab any hand at the moment. She suddenly sighed, and rose back to her knees, as if a crushing stone had just been lifted off from her shoulder. The pain was gone. Or rather, it was transferred onto someone else.

It was only then did she turn and look at the small, shining star at her side. A figure small, and ugly. Its head was large out of proportion, its lips cut through in the middle, its teeth sharp like razor, and its belly cord dangling still. But it was shining. Out of this ugly thing, there was beaming a light that no holy priests of the Eternal Fire have ever seen, no sorceress charting the stars have ever observed. At its appearance, wraiths vanished. Their small, green glows completely overshadowed by the bright light, as if fireflies giving in to the sun.

Tamara's eyes opened wide. There was amazement, there was awe, and there was gratitude and relief. But when she saw the belly cord, the undeveloped limbs, and the pair of eyes that were staring at her not a month ago, she realized who Dea truly was.

"You… you, are… my…"

She reached forward, but however she extended her arm, the shining star seemed always out of reach. It started to drift away, drifting back. It showed no expression, but as the pain left Tamara, the light of the shiny figurine became weaker and weaker.

"No, don't, don't leave me again…"

Tamara reached forward, trying to hold Dea's hand, her arms, her anything. But Dea floated further and further away.

"Done!" Triss sighed, turned to look at Geralt, before collapsing onto Renata, kneeling on the ground. Geralt hurried to her side.

"No, no, stay, I've yet to call you…" Tamara tumbled forward, trying to grab the fainting light. But as Triss announced the finish of the magic, Dea suddenly fell, like a kite snapped of its string, as light as a feather, she fell to the ground, and vanished.

Tamara frantically dug at the ground where Dea vanished. She dug away the dirt, the loose brick, the stones. She cried no, no, one after another, until it blurred into an intangible weep; and she dug and dug, until her fingers bled and smeared with dirt.

"She's gone, Tamara. She had become a lubberkin, one that swore to protect your family, and she did…"

"No, no, she's Dea, and I have yet to call her sister…"

"Who's Dea?" Suddenly Tamara was shocked to freeze as she heard the light, unburdened voice from behind, "is Dea a new friend? Maybe she could play with me."

For a while the entire group of people did not move a hair. In the midst Renata sat up. She looked at the place with curios big eyes. "Why are we here? Dad?"

Graden cried. In front of him was a girl that would put even the most beautiful queen to shame. It was a face composed by a poet, drawn by an artist. The skin was as smooth as porcelain, the eyelashes long and naturally curled, the lips like a pair of cherry. There were no traces of any scars whatsoever.

Graden hugged Renata deeply, and buried her chest into his.

"Dad, I think I just had a nightmare, there were ghosts coming out!"

"All nightmare has passed. No more bad dreams, baby girl, they are all gone."

Tamara stood up and stared deeply at Graden and Renata. Graden lifted his eyes to meet hers. He saw a lot, too much even, in her eyes. All of her feelings rushed to her, the mixture of sadness and joy lept to her, Tamara could not think of anything else to do – she could not think – than to rush into Graden's arms, and let go of all her tears, all her twenty years' tears of sorrow, and one night's tear of joy. Graden, Tamara, Renata, they hugged together. It was the kind of hug that one only gives to those he really loves, from the bottom of his heart.


	7. Epilogue

Rosemary and Thyme was a proper cabaret now, with even an outside stage for mummers and troubadours. The Dandelion and Callonetta duet drew guests near and far, both well-cultivated and muddleheaded ones. It was becoming quite a tourist attraction.

But one room was off-limit for guests, for it contained a secret passage to outside Novigrad's walls. Here, Tamara, Graden and Renata finally caught Geralt.

"Thank you, Geralt of Rivia, for everything you have done for us."

"Really, I know it was witcher's work, but there is no need for payment," Geralt turned down coin again, "so, what is the next step for you?"

"Well, can't stay in Novigrad no more. Even if I escape the pursuit from temple guards, I wouldn't want to be here when Radovid comes. We will go to Velen, to Crow's Perch."

"Really, Tamara, I didn't expect you to be willing to return to that place," Geralt startled.

"Neither did I. But when I saw Dea, when I saw my sister, I was convinced that my father had seen the guilt and offense he had done," Tamara continued, almost failed to contain her voice, "I was convinced, that he… he was a changed man, for however short a time it was."

"Crow's Perch needs you, baroness" said Geralt, "I've seen firsthand the coldhearted rule of the sergeant after your father departed. People there missed you, Tamara. And I think you'll make a decent baron, Graden."

"Ha ha," Graden chuckled, "funny isn't it. When Tamara came to me, I thought I was offering her her salvation, but it turned out, she was offering me mine. We will go there, beyond the reach of the witch hunters and the imperial legion." He paused, and asked, "So, what's next for you, Geralt of Rivia? Please know that you will always be an honored guest at Crow's Perch."

"Thanks," Geralt said. But he was not going to Crow's Perch. He was there staring into Graden hugging Renata when he was wounded in their fight. He was there staring into Graden hugging Renata when she was healed. For the first time he felt something missing in him that he saw complete in others. Renata was waving to him now, and those emerald eyes, the puckish, confident smile somehow blurred and reformed into a picture of another young lady, one that Geralt would go through even more than Graden and Tamara did to see her and save her again. And Graden and Tamara, a pair of broken lovers, reminded him of another woman, whom always finds a way back to his life despite the breakups. If even the relationship between the Bloody Baron and Tamara could be mended, then perhaps so can his with Yen. Even if it meant to sail across the stormy ocean to Skellige Isles, even if it meant to risk his life following the Wild Hunts, Geralt would do it. In fact, for the first time since he arrived in Novigrad, he was certain where he would go next.


End file.
